


Underneath

by adrift_me



Series: Entrusted - Gravebone Short Stories [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Magic Revealed, Protective Original Percival Graves, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 08:24:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9985145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrift_me/pseuds/adrift_me
Summary: “Magic exists, Credence."Graves reveals his magic to Credence in an attempt to help.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My awesome friend [Marion](gravesfrommacusa.tumblr.com) doomed me into writing fluff forever, so this is for her once again.
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://accio-toffy.tumblr.com/) :)  
> Do you have a prompt for Gravebone? Send me an ask and I'll write it ;)

If Percival Graves were an outgoing man with many close acquaintances, he would have visited a local bar or played a round of pool with friends this peaceful spring evening. But he is not a man of company and prefers serene solitude to boisterous gatherings. His way lies down the road, across which the Second Salem church is, and he’s treading down the street with spring blossom fragrance and wind as his companions.

There are several reasons for Graves to be in this street yet again. He wouldn’t admit the truer reason to his colleagues, but they wouldn’t question regardless. Apart from investigating the troubling building up of tension between the no-maj society and the magical one, he is quite inclined on seeing “that freak with leaflets”. He heard this wording before, he is enraged by it, infuriated. He had many conversations with the boy, he looked through a facade of pain and rejection to unravel a nature of kindness and innocence.

It bewitches Graves.

He fixes his light cashmere scarf before walking across the street to where Credence is abysmally failing at what his “mother” told him to do.

A stack of leaflets in his hold looks like it has not thinned for hours, the boy’s fingers are already gray from cold. They dig into paper, pressed to his chest. His left hand is covered with the right one, but the way Credence holds it betrays a secret to Graves.

“What is this, Credence? Have you hurt your hand?”

He can see something poking out from between the boy’s fingers; it’s a dirty rag, tied around his hand.

“It’s nothing, sir,” Credence jerks away as if Graves’ hand is made of fire. His eyes are cautiously grazing the church’s windows. Percival can’t help but follow that pitiful look only to see emptiness behind the dirty glass. He looks back at Credence who cowers and seems to be distancing himself from the auror’s reach. Graves catches him by the tip of his shoulder and guides to the wall beside the church. An unnoticeable little nook. They stand close to the wall to escape curious looks from inside and outside alike, avoiding normally intrusive society.

“Can I see it, Credence?”

Graves’ voice is mellow and comforting. He calls the boy by his name, makes it sound gentle and loved, not abused that he seems to be used to. Percival reaches out to take a look at the hand, but Credence squeezes the stack of leaflets instead, unwilling to open up.

“Credence, I want to help you. You know that I won’t hurt you, yes?”

The boy tilts his head, his whole body shuddering in cold and pain. Graves looks around, noting the indifference of passers by, which only plays into his hand. 

“I will take this, is it alright, Credence?”

Graves reaches out for damp leaflets that the boy won’t let go of. As if his hands are frozen around sharp edges, he clings to paper with all his being. It takes a gentle touch on his shoulder, careful rub of a thumb over the joint, to make Credence relax a little and let Percival pull the flyers out of his grasp. He sneaks his fingers over Credence’s, gently turning over and cupping his hand, holding it lightly.

It must be a matter of trust for Credence to allow someone like Percival Graves to look at what is hidden beneath the dirty rag over his flesh. The man unfolds his rigid fingers, like flower petals, revealing a hurriedly tied piece of cloth. It is dusty and doesn’t smell well, and if Graves’ senses don’t lie, there is a light scent of blood. He wonders.

“Credence, we’ve known each other for a few weeks now, haven’t we? You know that I wouldn’t hurt you. Would you show or tell me what happened to your hand?”

“I can’t, Mr. Graves,” finally says the boy, shaking his head a little which looks more like a nervous impulse. His voice is breaking and falling into barely audible whisper. “I am not allowed…”

“Did your mother do this?”

“Yes,” replies Credence in hag-ridden voice. Graves suppresses a raging feeling inside him and calms both himself and the boy down by cupping and caressing Credence’s face.

“I promise you, I give you my word that if you let me, I will stop the pain.”

“I deserve it.”

“No, you don’t,” says Graves, shaking his head vigorously, Credence’s hand still in his hold. Thumb over thumb, a careful slide down the skin. “You deserve better, my boy. Please, open your hand.”

After a breathtaking pause Credence’s fingers relax slightly and Percival manages to get a hold of the rag. He is careful to unwrap it, not to disturb painful evidence of cruelty. It’s the worst when he tries to remove the fabric from the palm itself, its threads stuck and merged with dry blood. Credence hisses and gasps when the fabric comes off his hand, but strong grip on his wrist holds him in place.

“Shhh,” Graves shushes him quietly, throwing the fabric off and leaning closer to Credence. There are appalling lines of anger all across his hand, they are deep and now slowly bleeding from the removed rag. Graves stares at that graceful hand, uglified by a monster, and he can’t wrap it around his head how would someone want to hurt this wonderful boy.

It’s not even a decision, it’s an impulse and justified only by compassion, that Graves’ hand hovers over Credence’s and a peaceful magical force, like a wave, erases blood-filled lines. It sucks out pain and fear, it pacifies ragged breathing in Credence’s chest as he watches the source of his discomfort disappear.

“This will help, Credence. This will help,” whispers Graves, sliding the boy’s hand over his own cheek, smooth skin over prickling stubble.

Credence doesn’t say a word.

His hand encloses on the wrist and he breathlessly stares at his healed palm. His unbelieving fingers hover over alleviated bruises.

“Magic,” his lips spell a word without a sound.

“Magic exists, Credence.”

These two words are sufficient enough to ignite a sparkle of hope, but way too scarce to express all the things Graves truly wishes to say. He wants to tell Credence that he has power in that hunching body, power waiting to be harnessed and tamed. That magic can serve and be a strong force of good will. That if Credence wishes to, he too can master it…

The young man still says nothing. His eyes are enchanted by what he witnessed, and Graves delights in the way Credence soaks in this strange revelation.

“Credence?”

He is still wordless, but now looking up to find Graves’ eyes, searching for a hint of lie in them. Dark eyes stare, their warmth radiating sincerity. Graves carefully takes Credence’s hand in his own and folds his fingers to plant a kiss on the knuckles.

“My boy, you don’t need to be afraid. I will protect you,” he says quietly, his lips still tenderly pressed to Credence’s hand. “I understand you need time to… process what you saw. Credence, let us meet in a different place in time of our next meeting.”

Graves whispers a short address of a diner he knows, hoping that Credence doesn’t lose it in his memory, now flooded with questions, admiration and confusion.

“If you come, I’ll know that you still wish to see me. That magic doesn’t frighten you. That  _ I _ don’t.”

 


End file.
